


For the Love of a Good Man

by MischiefMaker



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pining, Relationship Negotiation, Return of Sherlock, Romance, The Reichenbach Fall, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 21:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17926295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefMaker/pseuds/MischiefMaker
Summary: After dismantling Moriarty's criminal empire, Sherlock is determined to share with John the revelations he's had during his absence. Tired and lonely after two years of back alleys and dive hotels, he wants nothing more than to return to where his heart is and pick up his old life, only to find that time has not stopped during his time as a dead man. Does that heart still remain at 221b?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [J_Baillier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/gifts).



> I wrote this story not long after "The Reichenbach Fall," Season 2, Episode 3, aired. At that time, I did not know how Sherlock would come back or where John would be in his emotional journey after losing Sherlock. I returned to this work after leaving it alone for several years. It is now complete and will be updated on Mondays.
> 
> My deepest gratitude goes out to J_Baillier, my esteemed beta, who encouraged me to dream that I would one day post this on AO3 for others to read. Her patience and enthusiasm sparked a fire in this writer's heart. She helped make this a stronger story and me a better writer.
> 
> Thank you, J_Baillier, for helping make my dream come true. I hereby dedicate this story to you.

Sherlock stood in the pouring rain outside the wrought iron gate. All he needed to do was press the nearby button to be allowed entrance, but he continued to stand motionless, staring at the imposing house situated beyond the security walls. After several rain-drenched minutes, he finally reached out and within seconds, the massive gate began to swing open, allowing him to slip inside. It shut noiselessly behind him and he began walking slowly up the drive.

The silhouette of a tall man stood in the open doorway of the grand house, watching him. Once at the door, Sherlock stopped short of entering and stared at him for several seconds. Then, with a nod, Sherlock passed by him and made his way into the marble foyer, dripping rainwater the entire way.

Another man appeared from a side door off the entrance, handed Sherlock a towel, and offered to take the sodden coat from his shoulders. Sherlock shrugged out of the heavy fabric and let the other man recover it from his grip. He scrunched the towel gently through his short, auburn-dyed curls and wiped his face dry before handing back the now-damp towel. Toeing off his ruined leather shoes, he stared at his damp socks. His shoulders slumped and he staggered slightly as he tried to step forward to join the first man who was walking past him. No attempt was made to steady Sherlock; instead, his solemn companion waited for him to regain his balance before continuing to lead him through the foyer.

He paused in the doorway leading to a library lit only by a flickering fire.“It’s over then, I presume?”

“Yes. Over.” Sherlock confirmed and managed to walk forward without staggering and went to stand in front of the warm hearth.

Light switches clicked as the other man moved about the room, turning on different lamps. The polished wood of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases glowed in the increased light and Sherlock sighed as he looked around the familiar room.

“Any details of which I should be aware?” the other man asked as he walked to a small bar set into an alcove and poured three fingers of 15-year-old Glenfarclas whiskey into two cut-crystal tumblers. His hand hesitated over the ice bucket before dropping away. Handing one tumbler to Sherlock, the other man settled into a Queen Anne chair facing the fireplace.

“I already told your men where to find the... package. They’re disposing of it as we speak,” Sherlock replied as he sniffed at the golden liquid swirling in his glass.

“Excellent.”

Sherlock downed the fine whiskey in one swallow, then held the tumbler out to the other man who studiously ignored the implied request. Sighing, Sherlock padded over to the bar and poured himself another three fingers. After gulping this down as quickly as the first, he began to feel the effects of the heavy liquor on an empty stomach. Snorting to himself for being a lightweight, he measured out another drink and shuffled back to the fireplace. Standing as close to the grate as he could without burning himself, he tried to soak in the warmth before turning back to the seated man.

“Same room as usual?” Sherlock inquired.

“Yes. I’ve asked Arlon to draw a hot bath for you and set out dry clothes. Cook is putting together a small tray that will be ready once you’ve cleaned up." The man took a small sip of whiskey, swirled it in his mouth, and continued to study Sherlock. “We can talk more then.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied and downed his third whiskey. “I won’t be long.”

“Take your time. You deserve it.”

Sherlock placed the tumbler on the mantle and started for the door.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” came the weary reply.

“I’m glad it’s over. For everyone’s sake but especially yours.”

Sherlock turned and looked at the man whose gaze was now fixed on the firelight.

“Me too, Mycroft. Me too.”

{OooO}

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock reappeared in the library doorway dressed in a form-fitting black cashmere sweater and black jeans. His dyed hair was dry, the auburn curls softly framing his gaunt face.

Mycroft waved a laconic hand at a tray of food laid out on a nearby table. Sherlock wandered over to it, stared at the steaming bowl of Cock-a-Leekie soup, plate of warm homemade granary bread, and cool glass of water, before tearing off a piece of the bread and taking a small bite. His stomach grumbled for more and, for once, he gave in to his Transport, conceding that it presently just might need more than the Glenfarclas to continue functioning.

Mycroft left Sherlock to his dinner, perhaps preferring to postpone any discussion until his brother had eaten his fill. Given that Sherlock had denied his transport food for far too long, he didn’t have long to wait. Within ten minutes, Sherlock joined his elder sibling in the adjacent Queen Anne – but not before scooting the chair as close to the fire as he dared.

“Watch for sparks, Sherlock. Mummy will be most displeased if you scorch one of her antiques,” Mycroft tutted.

Sherlock snorted. He shifted the chair back a couple of inches and turned to face Mycroft.

“What are your plans now that this is over?” Mycroft queried.

“Long-term or immediate?”

“Whichever you feel inclined to share.”

“I think you know what I’d like my immediate plan to be,” Sherlock sighed, as he glanced over at Mycroft.

“Doctor Watson."

There was no questioning lilt in Mycroft’s voice.

“John,” Sherlock confirmed.

Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin.

“We need to talk before you go to him.”

Sherlock turned sharply in the chair and faced his brother.

“Is something wrong? You’ve told me all along that he was doing fine.”

Mycroft looked into the fire as though searching for the right words.

“He _is_ fine. He’s come to terms with your death of two years ago and seems relatively at peace." Mycroft paused before looking over at Sherlock. “But something’s come to light of which I was unaware, though it pains me to say so.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, knowing how hard that must have been for him to admit.

“Our Doctor Watson apparently learned a few of your tricks and has managed to hide something significant from my watchful gaze." Mycroft took another small sip of his Glenfarclas. “He’s met someone.”

He sat up straight and stared at Mycroft.

“Why were you unaware of this particular person? Surely, he’s been dating during the time I’ve been...away, but why do you think this one is worth attention?”

Mycroft uncrossed his legs, rose, tumbler in hand, and took Sherlock’s glass from him before filling both and returning to the fireplace.

Handing the tumbler back to Sherlock, he said, “John is apparently more serious about this one than any of the others he’s casually dated. In fact....” Mycroft grimaced and turned away from Sherlock to face the fire.

“Tell me." Sherlock’s baritone voice was harsh.

Mycroft took a deep breath and turned back.

“John’s moving in with her. My sources tell me he’s thinking of asking her to marry him. A ring has been purchased.”

Sherlock shoved up from his chair and crossed the library in three long strides to stand by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He carefully set the tumbler down on a nearby table.

John being serious about a woman? This wasn’t how things were supposed to turn out. Sherlock was supposed to dismantle Moriarty’s organization and then return to Baker Street where John would be waiting, and they could resume their life together.

And... he was supposed to tell John how he really felt about him once he returned. He had spent long nights in cramped alleyways and run-down hotel rooms, waiting for the next henchman in Moriarty’s hierarchy to appear, slowly understanding that he would do anything for John, even fake his own death, because...because he.... Even now, Sherlock could barely say the words to himself, within himself.

_Because I love him._

Mycroft made no move to approach Sherlock. “The only thing I will say in John Watson’s defense, brother mine” Mycroft began. “Is that he didn’t know you were alive. For him, this is about moving on from the horror of your supposed death. He’s attempting to put it behind him and forge some sort of future." He closed his eyes. “A future that does not include you.”

Sherlock whirled around to face Mycroft across the room.

“Without me? After all I’ve done?”

“Keep in mind that he isn’t aware of that.”

Sherlock slumped down into the nearest chair and put his hands over his face.

“I don’t suppose there’s much reason for me to go to Baker Street now,” he mumbled wearily.

Mycroft moved to stand in front of his brother, breaching their usually courteous distance. He pulled Sherlock’s hands away from his now tearstained face and looked at him sternly.

“What I’ve told you does in no way negate what you feel for John or what you did for him. I only wanted you to know what you would face when you went to see him. It didn’t seem fair to send you there without all the facts."

Sherlock dropped his hands into his lap. Despair, exhaustion, and resignation passed over his face in rapid succession. In a rare display of affection, Mycroft brushed Sherlock’s short curls back off his forehead.

“John needs to know you’re alive. He needs to know your motivations and your reasons for keeping him in the dark, and the fact of his importance to you, if he’s to make an informed decision about his future. He needs to know that moving in and possibly marrying this woman are not the only options now.

“But if you’re going to go to him, you need to do so tonight. His relationship with this woman has moved far faster than any other he’s been in. I was unable to find out the exact date when he’s moving out of Baker Street, but it will be soon, seeing as he’s given Mrs. Hudson notice."

He glanced at the clock on a nearby reading table.

“It’s still early; only half seven. John should be home from the surgery where he works by now. Rames is waiting out front to drive you to Baker Street."

Mycroft moved away and fussily adjusted the pleats of his trousers.

Sherlock stared up at him, trying to digest what his brother had just said.

He was so tired. Two years of running after the next person on the list, and then the next. The news of this woman seemed to be another in a long series of obstacles between John and himself just when he thought he’d conquered them all. This afternoon, he was sure he’d taken care of the last. Apparently, his Sisyphean struggle continued.

As if reading his thoughts, Mycroft said gently, “I know you thought you would just go to Baker Street and this would all be over. That all you’d need to do was explain to John about the necessity of faking your death and what you’ve been doing for the past two years." He paused. “As if that wasn’t a chasm difficult enough to bridge,” he murmured. “But facing him and the prospect of this woman will surely be easier than crossing the globe in your hunt for Moriarty’s pet criminals.”

Sherlock barked out a harsh laugh.

“Mycroft, you really don’t know John at all. If he’s decided to be with this woman, my Lazarus impression won’t be enough to change his mind.”

Mycroft smiled at him sadly.

“You won’t know the outcome unless you try.”

{OooO}

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock sat outside 221B Baker Street in the back seat of a BMW provided by Mycroft, staring up at the flat’s windows that were blazing with light. A shadow passed behind the curtains, indicating that someone was moving around in the flat.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh. He could only hope it was John. No, he _knew_ it was John.

“Sir?” Rames questioned. “Mister Holmes told me to ask if you’d like me to wait for you?”

Sherlock glanced at the young man in the front seat.

“You don’t need to wait for me, Rames, but best not relieve yourself of duty too soon. If you haven’t heard from me in 30 minutes, you can assume I won’t be needing you again.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and got out of the car. Rames pulled away and Sherlock found himself alone in front of 221B.

He’d dreamt about this moment for two years.

The anticipation of seeing John filled his chest with an unfamiliar, albeit not unpleasant, sensation. His arms ached to hold him close and whisper that he would never leave him again, to cross that boundary they had skirted for years. He still wanted that, but now everything was tinged with apprehension. Mycroft’s news had thrown him off guard, decimated his confidence about what kind of a reception he might get. He didn’t even know if John would be alone in the flat. Sherlock couldn't possibly tolerate sharing their reunion with anyone else. Not after everything he’d been through; the anticipation of this moment is what had allowed him to continue against odds that had, at times, seemed impossible to beat.

Sherlock forced his feet to move and he walked up to the door but did not knock. Instead, he rested his right hand on it and stroked the black paneled wood. His future lay beyond the door but he wasn’t sure he wanted to move from the limbo in which he now found himself.

_I’m Schrodinger's cat_ , he thought. _Neither dead nor alive in this moment. Maybe I should just stay that way_.

In that instant, he heard footsteps thumping down the 17 steps inside and a voice call out, “G’night, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll finish cleaning up tomorrow." Before he could react, the door was yanked open and a familiar body crashed into his.

Sherlock instinctively reached out to steady the man who had caused them both to stumble backwards almost to the street. He wrapped his arms around John and planted his feet to prevent them both from falling. Not quite how he’d planned it but Sherlock wasn’t going to complain if it meant he could hold John even for a few seconds without the man punching him or running off.

“Oi!” John yelled as he reached out to grab at the man who held him in an awkward embrace. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t know anyone was at the door. Didn’t hear you ring.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, squeezed John tightly, and then reluctantly dropped his arms. He took a step back and looked down at John, who had simultaneously released his grip on the man before him.

“John.”

“Yes?” John replied, not looking up as he adjusted his tan jacket. When nothing more was said, he raised his head. And stared at the tall, black-clad form standing before him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading my first chapter and all the wonderful comments. I am overwhelmed by the response!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this second chapter.
> 
> Peace.

Sherlock gazed down at John, taking in the myriad of emotions crossing over his features: incomprehension, disbelief, joy, anger, and something resembling... regret? He knew that his own face was reflecting both the elation and apprehension he was feeling, despite his efforts to hold on to his usual neutral mask.

“Sher...Sherl...Sherlock?” John stuttered as he pushed himself away from the man before him. “No, it can’t be. Who the hell are you?”

“John. You see but you do not observe,” Sherlock rumbled.

“Oh god, is it really you?” John’s voice was tight with a myriad of emotions. He walked down to stand in front of Speedy’s before striding back to Sherlock.

“You’re alive? You’ve been alive this whole time?” John hissed.

He paced back to Speedy’s. “I don’t know if I should hug you or punch you!” he shouted. He then strode back to Sherlock, looking both thrilled and furious. 

Sherlock smiled at him. This was the man for whom he’d jumped six floors to his supposed death. This was the man for whom he’d tracked down so many reprehensible people and made sure they would never hurt anyone again. This was the man he’d finally allowed himself to accept that he loved as he’d never loved anyone else.

This was John. 

_My John._

“I’d prefer the hug but if you really feel you must resort to physical violence, I’ll allow you one punch." 

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, hoping that the vulnerable gesture would encourage John to do what he must.

Soon, he found himself falling backwards as John launched himself at him. Sherlock abruptly sat down hard on the sidewalk while John seemed to alternate between hugging him and trying to punch him in the face.

“I said ‘one punch!’” Sherlock yelled as John continued to flail at him. 

“Too bad!” John yelled back. “You can’t die, let me think you’re dead for two years, and then come back expecting a bloody pat on the head!”

They continued to wrestle on the sidewalk for several moments, much to the amusement and annoyance of the pedestrians trying to get past them. Sherlock finally managed to use his superior height to his advantage and pinned John’s arms to his sides.

“Stop!” Sherlock huffed. “Just stop.”

John stilled enough for Sherlock to realize he wasn’t going to be hit anymore. He released the smaller man from the bear hug he had him in and got to his feet. John stayed seated on the sidewalk with his knees bent and elbows resting on them. He covered his face with his hands and, to Sherlock’s great surprise, began to laugh in that uniquely high-pitched way of his.

 _God,_ Sherlock thought. _I have missed him so much._

{OooO}

Several minutes later, John led Sherlock up the 17 steps to their...no...his flat. Sherlock stopped abruptly in the doorway, taking in the familiar yet disturbingly strange surroundings. He rapidly deduced that the new wallpaper was picked out by Mrs. Hudson, took in the empty bookshelves, surveyed the new leather couch (also picked out by Mrs. Hudson) and the kitchen that actually looked like a kitchen and not a chemistry lab (it must have been cleaned regularly by John). Both rooms had the eerie overtones of having been recently given a thorough cleaning – was this because they were now awaiting new occupants?

 _Alive and yet dead,_ Sherlock thought.

John glanced up at Sherlock and saw him taking in the changes.

“Er, yeah. Good thing you caught me. I was just leaving. Not staying here tonight,” John managed to stammer out.

“Nor ever again,” Sherlock murmured. He still hadn’t moved from the doorway.

“No,” said John. “At least, that’s the plan." 

He walked over to his chair and sat down. 

“Why don’t you come in?” 

He waved at the chair opposite him.

Sherlock was dismayed to see that it was not his familiar leather and chrome chair, but some hideous plywood item obviously bought from IKEA (Mrs. Hudson again). He couldn’t bring himself to sit on it nor on the unfamiliar couch so he remained standing in the doorway. John rapidly deduced the problem and rose from his chair.

“Tea?" 

He didn’t wait for an answer but moved into the kitchen. He pulled out a wooden chair from the table as he passed and gestured to it. 

“We can sit in here and talk.”

Sherlock stuffed his hands into the pockets of the unfamiliar black leather jacket. He’d have felt more confident in his Belstaff but it was still too damp to wear. Stiffly, he walked to the kitchen chair and sat down. John moved around efficiently, producing two cups and spoons, Earl Grey tea bags, and sugar. Sherlock noticed that John had turned on an obviously new cordless kettle on the worktop.

“No milk, I’m afraid. Then again, you only ever took sugar. Guess the loss is mine," John said as he placed the two steaming cups on the table and sat down across from Sherlock. “Sorry I only have Earl Grey. I know you prefer Darjeeling.” He snorted before taking a cautious sip. “I can hardly believe you’re actually alive. And what’s with your hair? No, start from the beginning and tell me what happened.”

Sherlock stared at the man seated across from him. The previous two years had left their mark. Sandy hair more grey than blond. New lines creasing from eyes and mouth. Eyes bright but with a more world-weary shade to them.

Sherlock sighed.

_John._

{OooO}

Over the course of the next three hours, Sherlock outlined how he’d faked his death and described his activities and disguises during the past two years. John listened intently, asking for clarification occasionally but otherwise staying silent, only moving to boil more water. Sherlock finally ended his narration with that day’s events but left out his talk with Mycroft. Both men sat in silence for several minutes while John digested all that Sherlock had told him.

John finally moved to pick up their cups and wash them, leaving them in the drainer to dry. He stood with his shoulders slumped and his head hanging down. Finally, taking a deep breath, he turned and leaned back against the worktop.

“So you did all this to keep me, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson safe?”

_Mostly you._

“Yes.”

“And you were absolutely convinced you couldn’t signal any of us you were still alive?”

“That would have put you in grave danger. Moriarty’s men would have known I was alive and their orders to kill you would still be valid.”

“But now they’re all dead and it’s safe for you to return?”

_Obviously._

“Yes.”

John took a deep breath and held it for several seconds before blowing it out. 

“I won’t lie to you. The first year and a half were incredibly difficult. I can’t begin to describe how bad it was. I even went back to see Ella." He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “She recommended a grief counseling group and that turned out to be surprisingly helpful." John smiled sorrowfully. “I was the only person there who hadn’t lost a spouse, but the others were still quite supportive." He shook his head. “It took a while but I finally found a measure of peace. I finally felt like I was able to move forward. I'm able to wake up and not have pain be the only thing I can feel." He chuckled ruefully. “I actually want to wake up in the morning now.”

He paused. 

Finally, he said softly, "I do still miss you." He glanced at Sherlock. “Or missed you. Past tense now, I suppose. But the pain has dulled. It doesn’t overwhelm me like it did. I still think of you every day but it doesn’t hurt as much." 

Sherlock got up and stood in front of him. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, finally deciding to let them hang loosely by his side.

“John, I need to say something important." He took a deep breath and continued. “I am deeply sorry for hurting you—with my death, with the need to deceive you. But, it was either that or risk losing you entirely. I wanted to tell you so many times that I was alive but didn’t dare. Couldn’t risk it." 

John started to protest but Sherlock held up a hand to silence him. “No, it wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. I knew you would keep my secret."

Sherlock looked at the ceiling and let out a deep sigh. “If Moriarty’s men had any evidence that I was alive, they would have immediately come after you. They would have tortured you to find out if it was true and where I was. And then, they would have killed you. Oh, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Everything I had done would have been for naught. Please, please forgive me.”

_Please, please, love me._

John shook his head and Sherlock felt a rush of panic wash over him. 

“I need to process everything that you’ve told me tonight. It’s all so incredible. You’re alive. You’re here." John reached up as though to touch Sherlock’s face but when Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, his hand dropped. “ I am glad that you’re alive. Of course, I am.”

Sherlock let his eyes drift shut, exhaustion catching up with him now that the conversation he had been thinking of for so long was done. An urgency to say more, much more, was there, but it would have just been a repetition of the most important facts. Now, the future he had salvaged lay in John’s hands.

_My John._

A flood of sentiment broke loose something in him, and he decided—perhaps recklessly, but still out a very real necessity—to say one more thing he had been rehearsing in his head during the long, cold, lonely months of his absence. The months that had felt like death, deprived of the warmth of the company of the man now standing before him.

“John, there’s one more thing I need to tell you,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes still shut. “I realized something important during the time I was...gone." He took a deep breath. “This is so hard,” he said under his breath. “I don’t do sentiment." He cleared his throat and opened his eyes and found John’s “I need to tell you that...I...that I....”

John’s mobile rang.

“Damn!” John yelled. “I totally forgot to ring Mary back." He stepped away from Sherlock and answered the call.

Sherlock stood in stunned surprise. 

_Mary. Her name is Mary._

He couldn’t resist eavesdropping on John’s side of the conversation.

“No, everything’s fine. Just lost track of time. Yeah, cleaning up the place. Took longer than I thought. You know how it goes." 

John glanced over at Sherlock and moved a few steps farther away toward the foyer. 

“I still have a few things to take care of here. I’ll call before I leave to come home.”

 _Home,_ Sherlock realized. _Home is not at Baker Street. Not anymore._ He wrapped his arms around himself. _No mention of me. I’m a thing “to take care of.”_

John snapped his mobile closed and turned back to Sherlock. 

“Where were we?" he asked. “What were you about to say?”

John moved back to the kitchen table and sat down. He smoothed his hand over the worn wooden surface.

Sherlock couldn’t say the words. Not now. Not when she, the one John is with, had suddenly gained a name.

“That was Mary, as you probably worked out. I guess it’s my turn to fill you in on what’s been happening with me.”

{OooO}

Sherlock listened as impassively as he could for the next 25 minutes as John told him about meeting Mary at a medical conference three months ago. How they’d hit it off right away. How she worked at Bart’s and they’d never run into each other before. How they’d seen each other every day since. John was beginning to think she was "the one." They were moving in together— _obvious, John_ —and he was working up the courage to propose.

Sherlock hardly needed to be a consulting detective to see the love shining out of John’s eyes as his friend wove a picture of two people falling in love. 

With each word like a knife twisting in his heart, Sherlock listened as John moved farther and farther away from him.

_Come back to me, John._

{OooO}

When John finally ran out of steam about Mary’s virtues and the importance of their relationship in his life, Sherlock summoned up what inner resources he could and told John he was happy for him. John looked at him a bit oddly but apparently decided to take what Sherlock said at face value.

“I hate to do this, Sherlock, but I really must be getting home. I’m not working tomorrow so we should get together and talk some more. Where are you staying?”

Sherlock looked about the flat and shrugged a leather-clad shoulder. 

“Not sure yet. I’ll probably give Mycroft a call. He usually has a spare room or three available in that hideous house of his,” Sherlock murmured. 

John looked at him in askance but didn't pursue the idea of Sherlock voluntarily staying with Mycroft. 

“Does Mrs. Hudson know you’re alive?” John asked abruptly.

Sherlock shook his head. 

“No, I wanted to tell you first. I’ll talk with her and Lestrade tomorrow. No sense giving either of them a heart attack tonight.”

John laughed but then sobered quickly. 

“Yeah, go easy on Mrs. Hudson. She took your death particularly hard. You were like a son to her. And Lestrade…he’ll probably try to give you a good beating. Or a big hug" 

They both chuckled.

John snapped his fingers and said, “You have to let me go with you to the Met when you tell Lestrade. Especially if Anderson and Donovan are there. I would love to see their faces when they find out that you’re alive!”

Sherlock laughed. “I hadn’t even thought of those two. Maybe Anderson will have a heart attack and we can finally be shot of him.”

“Sherlock!”

“What? A bit not good?”

John laughed. “A bit.”

For a moment, the two men reconnected and Sherlock thought they had a chance. He wondered if sharing his feelings was worth the risk. How would John react?

John’s mobile chimed and the moment was lost. Again.

_Damn that woman._

{OooO}

John stood and pulled his mobile from his pocket and checked the text. 

“Mary,” he said apologetically. “I really need to get going." He moved toward the door. “Why don’t you sleep here tonight? Everything’s clean and I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would be thrilled to find you here in the morning.”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“No, I should probably talk with Mycroft tonight anyway. But I would like to stay here for a few minutes if you wouldn’t mind." He pushed to his feet and looked around. “Feels good to be in a more-or-less familiar place finally.”

“Take your time, Sherlock." John moved closer to him. “I’m so glad to see you,” he said softly. “Thank you for not being dead." John wrapped his arms around him.

Sherlock completed the embrace and held John as closely as he dared, for as long as he dared. Still, he pulled away first. 

_No sense in prolonging the inevitable._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful reception as a new writer on AO3! The response has been astounding--I can hardly believe how many hits the first two chapters received!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next installment. Please let me know what you think.

John left in a flurry of promises to phone the next day. Sherlock locked the downstairs door behind him and returned to the upstairs flat.

The space felt jarring without John in it. He was at least familiar. Without him, and with the new furniture and clean spaces, the flat felt just foreign enough to be uncomfortable. Sherlock wandered down the hall to his old room and looked in. The bed and wardrobe were still there but the room had been stripped of his personality. Now it was just a bedroom waiting for a new resident.

Sherlock walked back down the hallway and stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to John’s room. Since John was staying at Mary’s, Sherlock assumed he had already moved all of his belongings there. Theoretically, the room should be as sterile as his old one. Still, Sherlock hesitated, torn between wanting to be in John’s personal space and not wanting to see it stripped of all that was the man he loved.

_John._

In the end, he mounted the stairs as he knew he would. Stopping before the closed door, he took a deep breath to center himself. Feeling marginally calmer, he went in and stood just across the threshold.

Once standing in the middle of the room, Sherlock let out a breath. _No ghosts here_. Nothing for him to hold onto. Nothing to remind him of the man for whom he’d risked, and apparently lost, everything. The room was now devoid the only thing that had ever made this place a home—John Watson.

He sank down onto the bed. The weight of the evening pressed down on him and he lowered his head into his hands. He’d woken this morning with several goals finally in sight. Finish off the last of Moriarty’s operation, reconnect with Mycroft, and reunite with his John. Granted, he’d technically reached all of those goals. Unfortunately, the last not in the manner he’d hoped and longed for.

_John._

Sherlock was savvy enough to know that society encouraged people to fight for those they loved, no matter the cost. John had forced him to watch a couple of movies that had that precise premise. The one you love is in love with someone else? Use all the dirty tricks in the book to turn them against the other and win their affection. He knew that if he met this Mary, he could deduce everything about her and inform John of it all. He’d done it plenty of times to the women John had mistakenly brought home in the past. None of them had lasted long. Of course, he’d known doing that was “a bit not good” but he couldn’t quite bear to see John becoming seriously involved with any of them. He didn’t really understand why the thought had felt so threatening at the time.

Now, it was all too clear.

He remembered overhearing Lestrade once tell another officer that Sherlock was a great man and that, if they were lucky, he might one day be a good one. Would that mythical creature do what he had done tonight—listen carefully as John spoke of Mary—without expression or judgement? He had paid attention to the nuances in John’s tone. To the word choices he made. After hearing how lovingly John had shared what he had with Mary, it didn’t take a genius consulting detective to deduce that John truly cared for the woman in a way that he hadn’t for all the others. It was evident that John was happy and that Sherlock had had nothing to do with that happiness. If anything, what he’d done could have robbed John of his capability for such a state of mind forever.

He concluded that a good man would walk away and not inform John of his feelings for him. To let John love and be loved by this woman for the rest of his life. To be a father, perhaps. Sherlock would be John’s friend, not his lover.

Could he do that? Would that be him becoming a good man? Would that be a purpose more worthy than chasing his own wants and needs? Would it be a start to remedying the hurt he’d caused?

_Oh, John._

Sherlock heard a strange keening escape his throat and he realized tears were trickling down his face between his fingers. He allowed himself to fall onto his side and bury his face into the pillow at the head of the bed. As he drew in a deep, shuddering breath, he raised his head in alarm as he realized the pillow still held John’s scent. Tea, woolen jumpers, a faint whiff of cordite, and that indefinable scent that was John’s alone.

Sherlock slowly lowered his head back down onto the pillow. He breathed in deeply, at last finding something familiar in this place that no longer felt like his home. He hugged the pillow to his chest and finally let the tears flow without resistance.

{OooO}

John quietly let himself back into 221B. He’d returned—probably against his better judgement—perhaps because he felt bad that he’d left Sherlock so soon after finding out he wasn’t dead. He’d also forgotten to get Sherlock’s new mobile number and wanted to make sure they could get in touch the next day.

The lights were still on so he first looked for Sherlock in the sitting room and kitchen. Not seeing him, he moved to what used to be Sherlock’s bedroom but discovered it was empty. He then walked up to his own former room and there found the detective curled up asleep on the bed, a pillow clutched in his arms.

John stood looking down at his old friend for several long moments. He noticed how tightly Sherlock held the pillow and how his face was damp with tears. John shook his head, unsure of how to react to the sight of such a vulnerable Sherlock. This wasn’t something he was meant to witness.

He saw Sherlock shiver slightly in his sleep and went to the wardrobe to retrieve a blanket he’d left behind. He unfolded it over the somnolent man and tucked it around both him and the pillow. John reached out and smoothed the auburn curls away from Sherlock’s face. He then retreated to the chair in the corner and settled in to watch over him.

After making himself comfortable, he sent a text to Mary.

“Ran into an old friend. Be home very late.”

{OooO}

Two hours later, Sherlock awoke, stiff from being curled in one position for so long. He immediately noticed the blanket covering him and raised his head to see John dozing in the chair. He was mildly alarmed that the other man was able to sneak in without his knowledge and he hugged the pillow even closer, the last tendrils of sleep still clinging onto him. He sluggishly wondered if John had seen the evidence of his breakdown and decided he was too tired to care. His stiff limbs continued to protest, so he turned on his back to stretch luxuriously. It had been too long since he’d slept; he’d learned the difficult lesson during his time away that his Transport needed to recharge more often than in the past. For several seconds, he let himself pretend that everything was back to normal. That he and John were back in their old life. That the previous two years didn’t exist.

_That John is still mine, to the extent that he ever was. Never completely, but it was enough. It has to be enough._

But, Sherlock was not one to lie to himself. He let reality crash down around him and felt a shudder go through his body. He took one long, last breath of John from the pillow and then gently laid it at the head of the bed. He was tempted to place the blanket over John but knew that John slept lightly due to his PTSD. Sherlock folded the blanket and rose to stand over the seated man.

Leaning down, he ghosted the words against the other man’s ear. “Remember that important thing I needed to tell you earlier? It’s that I love you, John.”

Sherlock moved toward the door and opened it but couldn’t resist one last look back at John before he left Baker Street, most likely for good. His smile was bittersweet as he finally hung his head and turned toward the door.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock whispered.

As the bedroom door quietly snicked shut behind Sherlock, John opened his eyes.

{OooO}

Sherlock stood on the landing outside John’s door for several seconds. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to whisper in John’s ear such a confession. He only knew that he had to tell him, even just for himself, even if John never became aware of the words. Tears threatened to spill again but Sherlock drew in a deep breath and angrily brushed away the salty drops clinging to his lashes. After glancing back once more at the door, Sherlock moved quietly down the steps and stood in the open doorway to the sitting room, trying to summon the will to walk out the door.

A noise behind him caused Sherlock to stiffen. The door handle to John’s room had creaked and a change in air pressure alerted him to the opening of the door. He hung his head when he heard John’s voice softly calling his name.

“I heard what you said,” John said in a breathy whisper.

Sherlock’s head snapped up at John’s words. He hadn’t intended for John to hear his confession. He’d kept his voice _sotto voce_ or so he’d thought. _Damned sentiment_. His mind scrambled for a way out of the situation. His mouth set in a hard line, Sherlock decided to take advantage of John’s lack of detail.

“Yes, I said ‘goodbye,’” Sherlock muttered. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

John walked down the stairs until he was the same height as Sherlock. He pressed a warm, strong hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gently turned him around to face him. Sherlock tried to resist but he was just so tired. Any fight had drained out of him at John’s touch.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Sherlock. Please, look at me.” John rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, but obviously decided to soldier on.

Sherlock shuddered at John’s touch. He’d longed for it so many times over the past two years. But to look into those blue eyes now would mean revealing just how vulnerable he felt and he so wanted to be a good man in John’s eyes. He could not let John see the love he could feel glowing on his face. Then Mycroft’s words came back to him: ‘ _He needs to know that moving in and possibly marrying this woman are not the only options now_.’

Was it worth the risk?

Slowly, Sherlock raised his eyes and looked at John.

{OooO}

John’s lips twitched into a small smile as Sherlock’s cerulean eyes met his. Sherlock was shocked by the smile and felt his own lips curving upwards in response. Then he remembered Mary and he looked away, stepping back to put some distance between himself and John.

“What’s the matter?” John asked in surprise.

Sherlock grasped his head and moaned.

“Don’t you see, John? Do you still not know how to observe?"

He flung his arms out to the side and then let them fall limply back to his body. He moved to go down the next set of steps but once again John stopped him.

“Sherlock, you whispered in my ear that you love me.  You know I find this sort of thing difficult but, I can’t unhear what you said. Please don’t walk away from me now.”

The detective sank down onto the landing with his feet two steps down. He rested his arms on his knees and pressed his face into his hands. John stared at him for several seconds before nudging him over with his right knee and sitting down beside his friend. They sat shoulder to shoulder in silence—Sherlock struggling between wanting his own happiness and wanting what was best for John; while John struggled to understand what Sherlock was experiencing. The only sounds to break the silence were their breathing and the occasional vehicle that passed by on Baker Street.

“Don’t you need to be getting on to...?" Sherlock’s baritone was startling in the quiet. He couldn’t utter _her_ name.

John stirred and looked down the staircase.

“I sent Mary a text that I ran into an old friend and wouldn’t be home until late."

John gently bumped into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It’s not every day a consulting detective comes back from the dead and declares his love for me.”

“No, I would hope not, “ Sherlock grumbled.

“So you really love me? What, as a friend? A flatmate?" John paused, before whispering, “As a...man?”

“I just want you to be happy, John. That’s the most important thing to me. Your happiness." Sherlock looked at the man sitting next to him. “Whatever that means. With _whomever_. I’m hardly in a position to be entitled to ask for anything.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked away and stared into the darkened stairwell below them. He felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. Absently, he wondered what physiological response was causing that sensation, and what sort of an experiment might help him work it out.

“What answer would make you happiest?” he finally answered in an attempt to dodge the question.

John looked at him thoughtfully.

“I’m happy that you’re alive. I’m happy that you weren’t so depressed that you felt you had to commit suicide." He paused awkwardly. “I’m happy that you thought of me while you were gone." He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m happy that you realized you love me. But what I don’t know is what saying you love me means to you.”

“I’m not sure what it means either,” Sherlock prevaricated. “I just realized, while I was away, that being apart from you left a huge hole in my life. I would turn to tell you something but you weren’t there. It was almost as though _you_ were dead instead of me." Sherlock took a deep breath. “Then, one night while I was hiding in an alleyway, waiting for the next person on my list, I was thinking about some of our past cases. How you were always right there beside me. Running with me. Helping me solve the latest puzzle in the Game. And how sitting there in that alley, alone, trying to place all the pieces together by myself, was...was…” he paused, searching for the words that would encompass all that he had felt. “Detrimental to who I am. I wanted you there by my side. No, I needed you there. And I’ve never needed or wanted the company of anyone like that before.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the step.

“You know I don’t do sentiment. But I realized what I was experiencing was an exceptionally, _singularly_ strong emotion; that realization, perhaps obvious to someone else but not to me, was so startling that I felt physically ill for several minutes. Good thing the person I was waiting for didn’t show up during that time or I would have missed the opportunity." He shrugged. “Once the physical sensation passed, I had a revelation that felt similar to when I figure out the answer to a case. I deduced that the emotion could not be anything but...love." Sherlock glanced at John and then resumed staring at his feet. “Took me several more days to accept that. It was all I could think of, besides finishing up my tasks and getting back to you.”

John didn’t reply right away. He hummed to let Sherlock know he’d heard him and then lapsed into silence. Finally, he said, “Okay, good. That gives me the background, but were you able to figure out _how_ you love me?" John held very still, as though he was in the presence of a wild animal that was easily startled.

Sherlock looked over at John, who looked back at him with a carefully neutral expression. He didn’t see the revulsion or awkwardness that he had been expecting. He should have known better.

_This is John, after all. One never to be underestimated. The one who always surprises me._

He took a deep breath.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt love before. At least, not like this." Sherlock laughed. It was a bitter, angry sound. “I feel something for my parents and Mycroft, although that is an emotion much too complicated to be called love.”

John chuckled. “Anything to do with Mycroft is complicated." He sobered quickly. “What about your parents? Do you love them?”

Sherlock looked pensive. He rubbed his hands together and shuffled his feet.

“I suppose I do. We’re not what one would describe as a warm or cuddly family. More handshakes and claps on the back. I probably feel what any decent Englishman feels for his mother." He paused and frowned. “What does any of this have to do with what I feel for you?”

A gentle smile crossed John’s face. He looked steadily at his back-from-the-dead friend.

“There are different kinds of love. You mentioned a few already. Brotherly...well...love, for lack of a better word. Familial, what you would feel for your parents. Love of a son for his mother. Those are all different. And I’m assuming they are not what you feel for me." John looked mildly uncomfortable as he murmured his last words.

The man next to him grunted his assent.

“So, we can rule those types out. We should approach this like a mystery we’re trying to solve." He paused for a few seconds before continuing. “Let’s try friendship. I think we can safely say that we’re friends, right?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I would agree with your deduction, Dr. Watson.”

John shook his head in amusement. “Okay, good. We have a starting point. Have you had many friends? What did you feel for them?”

Sherlock looked at John ruefully. “Only you, John. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

When John said nothing in reply, Sherlock looked over at him and was startled to see a look of intense sadness on the other man’s face. He studied John’s expression but could see no pity. Just sorrow. Sherlock looked away, almost embarrassed by the reaction. He had long ago schooled himself not to mind that he had no one close to him. As a child, he had tried to make friends but he was so different from the others with his observations and almost insatiable need to share what he saw that the other children shied away from him. Any time he had been partnered with a classmate to work on a project, the two of them inevitably did separate work until the instructors finally relented and stopped forcing him to interact with other students.

As a young man at university, he opted for a single room and usually only spoke with tutors and instructors who tended to accept his solitary ways and were willing to answer his questions without pressing him with those of their own. Occasionally, both young women and men approached him with social invitations, and even more than a few private ones, but he always put them off. He knew they only wanted a part of him, not himself as a whole because that was just too overwhelming for any one person to deal with.

_Until John._

And now, here they sat on the stairs just outside the flat. And John was still watching him with sadness dimming his eyes.

“Oh, Sherlock. You must have been so lonely growing up." John’s low tone broke the silence between them. “And knowing you, you’ve shut all that away or maybe even deleted it from your Mind Palace."

“Those things have proven challenging to delete.”

John hesitated before reaching out a hand and gripping Sherlock’s knee. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here.”

Sherlock closed his eyes at John’s touch. It felt so good to have John’s reassurance. The feeling was new and Sherlock almost didn’t know how to process it. He put his own hand over John’s and gave it a squeeze.

“Thank you, John. That has to be the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

The older man grunted and turned his palm up to meet Sherlock’s. They sat quietly, holding hands for several long seconds. This felt so warm and natural that Sherlock wanted to stop time and stay here always, exploring these feelings of friendship and reassurance. John, however, broke the mood by removing his hand and stretching his arms above his head.

Sherlock dropped his hands between his knees and stared downward.

“So, if I’m your only friend, then you really have nothing to compare these feelings to?” John asked.

Sherlock had not thought of it that way. He quickly ran the deduction in his head and realized that John was right. He didn’t have another relationship to hold up against what he felt for the doctor. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions about the nature of his feelings.

“You are correct,” he admitted.

John twisted on the step and leaned against the railing.

“That makes it hard to understand what you’re feeling, I suppose. If it’s a friendship sort of love or romantic love. I’ve felt both and I liked to believe that there is a vast difference between the two." He paused for several seconds and then said, “Why don’t you describe what you feel when you think of me.”

The detective gave John a pained look.

“You really want me to outline my feelings?" Suddenly he didn’t want John to pick them apart, after all, in fear that he would belittle them. He was beginning to regret that they were having this conversation. Maybe handshakes and thumps on the back were a better way of dealing with uncomfortable emotions between two men.

The other man gave a bark of laughter.

“I’ve never known you to shy away from dissecting anything to do with a mystery.”

Sherlock gave him a black look.

“Those mysteries are easier to investigate when they belong to other people.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 4! What will our men talk about? What will be revealed?

“No one said this would be easy, Sherlock. Emotions are messy. They don’t make sense. They are intrusive and uncomfortable, painful and annoying but can raise us up to heights no drug can ever match." John snorted. “Listen to me. Waxing poetic about feelings in the middle of the night. Please,” he said as he rubbed Sherlock’s back briefly. “Tell me what you are experiencing.”

The younger man let out a deep sigh and began to speak.

“I...I feel a warmth in my chest and sometimes a lightheadedness when I think of you. When we were apart for those two years, I felt-- _broken_. As if a part of me was missing."

He stopped, averted his gaze and fixed it on a wall. He sat that way for several minutes and was thankful that John gave him the space to gather his thoughts, and yes, his feelings, before he spoke again.

“I wanted to ask your opinion about different clues I was turning up. I wanted to see your smiles and your frowns; you have a very expressive face" The more Sherlock spoke, the easier it became and he began explaining more quickly.

“I wanted to see the sleepiness on your face both before you went to bed and when you wandered downstairs the next morning. I wanted to run beside you after a suspect and see you pull your gun to keep that person quiet until Lestrade and his people showed up. And tea!" Sherlock bounced in his seat. “Lots and lots of tea that I may or may not drink but it didn’t matter to you. You’d make me a cuppa whether or not I wanted it and didn’t seem to be offended if I didn’t drink it. It was you, always you, telling me you were there and attentive and interested.”

John laughed with Sherlock as they both remembered the countless cups of tea that had been scattered around the flat. Some were full, others half so, with a precious few totally empty.

Sherlock looked pensively down the stairs into the darkness of the first landing.

“I hated it when you would go out on dates and especially if you brought them into our home. But I didn’t understand why. I just knew they made me uncomfortable. The thought of you with those women made me feel downright physically...ill, I suppose.”

“And you masked those feelings by being a complete arse and chasing them off,” John said thoughtfully. “By pointing out everything you’d deduced about them so that they would leave.” John hesitated. “You not only hurt them but me as well, you know,” he said in a small voice.

Sherlock hung his head. He hadn’t meant to catch John in the crossfire of his deductions but apparently, he had become collateral damage. He thought about this and realized that something...polite...was expected of him in reply.

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted them to go away,” he muttered. “Wanted to stop feeling like that.”

The doctor hummed and nudged his arm against Sherlock’s.

“I know. I realized it wasn’t personal after about the fifth woman I brought home to meet you." John paused. “Is that the reason you think what you feel is romantic love for me? Because you couldn’t bear to see me with someone other than you?”

Sherlock pondered this. He had accepted that John would continue to date whether Sherlock liked it or not, and he could even remember the precise moment he accepted all this with resignation. They’d not had a case in several days so John had asked out one of the nurses from his locum work. He had told Sherlock that he was going out on Friday night instead of staying in and eating takeout with Sherlock while they watched some inane movie that the older man thought they should see. Sherlock had been startled to realize that he had actually deleted the number of women John had dated and was shocked to discover that what he felt at John’s news was resignation. There seemed to be nothing he could do to stop him from dating in general, save for some uncomfortable admission about his motives, which he would actually have had to examine. He remembered only grunting at John’s declaration and curling up on the couch with his back to the room.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh.

“I hadn’t put the two together but can see now that that’s what was going on. I was...I was...” he struggled to find the right word. When he did, he realized that he never would have thought to apply it to himself.

“I wanted you all to myself. I was undeniably quite jealous," he murmured, hunching his shoulders and avoiding looking at John.

The stairs and hallway were painfully quiet for several minutes. Sherlock didn’t dare glance at John to see his reaction but could tell that the other man was holding himself very still and not touching Sherlock even though they were sitting close together on the stair step. John’s breathing and heartbeat had accelerated briefly before settling back down to their resting states.

Sherlock thought back to all the time he and John had spent together. Not when they were solving cases but the downtimes, the spaces in-between when they had stayed within the parameters of just being two flatmates, two friends, two men who enjoyed each other’s company. The silences, the small disagreements, the laughter, the comfortableness of being in the same room but not speaking.

He had missed that over the past two years, and even having some iteration of that would be a vast improvement to solitude He had despised being alone again. Feeling out of step with the rest of the world. John had spoiled him with his tea and jumpers, his newspapers and badly-plotted movies. Sherlock knew he couldn’t go back to living alone. And being lonely. He needed John to be there. Always. In some way. In whatever way he could.

Sherlock risked a glance at the other man. John’s face was a study in confusion, thoughtfulness, and something Sherlock could not name. It was a cross between happiness, regret...the descriptive word dropped into Sherlock’s thoughts: _bittersweet_. That was the expression passing behind John’s eyes. Sherlock wasn’t sure exactly what that meant.

He was startled out of his deductions when John cleared his throat.

“I suppose I knew you were jealous. After all, you had my attention most of the other times so you got used to that." John paused for several seconds. “If you hadn’t ever experienced the attention of a close friend before, anything that would take that away would be a threat. Probably something to be jealously guarded. Does that make sense to you?”

Sherlock gave this some thought. Of course, it was true that he really didn’t have any experience of being in a friendship. Each time John brought someone home, that person had felt like a threat. Someone coming between John and him, whatever they were to each other

John interrupted his musings. “Did you feel jealous of people I’m friends with? Lestrade? Mike? Sarah? Or was it just the women I dated?"

He looked sidelong at the detective and relaxed his body, which brushed against Sherlock’s again.

Sherlock examined his reactions to the people John had named. Lestrade: Sherlock didn’t have a problem with John meeting him at a pub; wouldn’t feel jealous of John’s time away from him then. Same with Mike. Those were just times that John wasn’t around; they didn’t signal about a threat of permanent separation.

Sarah had been a problem at first. She had started out as an undeniable threat, especially when she was taken hostage during the first date in the Blind Banker Case. John had been so worried about her and had been trying to talk the Chinese smuggling gang out of harming her. For John’s sake, Sherlock had acted gallantly in getting both Sarah and John away from the smugglers. Afterwards, Sarah had redeemed herself beyond being just another one of John’s dates by pointing out that the museum curator had already begun translating the Chinese symbols into words. Later, when she and John became friends instead of lovers, Sherlock had been even more comfortable with the relationship.

The other women, however, those with whom John did have romantic relationships, those with a potential for long-term developments, were the ones who bothered him. They were the ones that created the uncomfortable physical and emotional reactions. The time that John spent with them was time when he could have–no, _should_ have–been with Sherlock. Could that have been jealousy in a “just friends” way?

“Sherlock?” John prompted after the detective was quiet for several minutes.

The younger man turned to look at John. His eyes were puzzled and his brows were knit together.

“I’ve determined that I’m not jealous of Lestrade, Mike, or Sarah. Or, at least, I’m not jealous of the time you spend with Sarah _anymore_." Sherlock paused and then cleared his throat. “The women you’ve dated, however, they’re the ones who bothered me. I’d rather you spent that time with me than out with them."

He looked sidelong at John to check his reaction.

The two men were quiet again as John processed Sherlock’s words. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as he waited for John to speak. He didn't have too long to wait.

“So friends aren't a problem but girlfriends are? That's an interesting distinction. Care to deduce anything further from that?” John asked.

Sherlock tried to find the right words to express the difference between the two types of relationships.

“Well, both of them take you away from me but with friends, it's usually just for a few hours and then you return. I suppose I know you will come back.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “With girlfriends, I never really know if you're out for just an afternoon or evening or if you will be staying overnight.”

The older man hummed and then said, “It appears that the big difference is the degree of uncertainty concerning when I'll return home. Is that a fair statement?”

“Yes, it is.”

“With a girlfriend, there's always the chance that it will develop into a serious relationship and I will move out?”

Sherlock shuddered. His gut instinct was to downright reject the idea of John's life moving in a direction in which he was not the main compass heading. No woman should be that important to John.

“I cannot imagine how our life together would work if you had someone else in your life and moved out. How could we solve cases together? I need you to be available to me at any time, day or night.”

John frowned.

“The jealousy you feel toward my girlfriends has to do with them making me less available to you for The Work?”

“Yes,” Sherlock eventually replied. “That's a major concern that I have.” He was happy for the distraction from the intense examination of his emotional life. “What we had before I...left...worked quite well. You were there when I needed you and, even the times you weren't, you were able to leave work early or let Sarah know you would be unavailable for a certain period of time. The Work must come first before everything else.”

John looked at Sherlock sadly.

“The Work? Or you? You might not realize it but for me, there is a difference between the two.”

“What do you mean? The Work and I are the same. You can't have one without the other,” Sherlock said firmly.

The doctor shook his head.

“I don't believe that's true. You are Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective but you're also Sherlock, the man. A man with feelings, friendships, interests outside of being a detective, such as playing the violin. And apparently, a man with feelings for me.”

Sherlock stood up and paced down the steps. He stopped on the first landing and stared at the worn wood under his black leather shoes. He was intensely uncomfortable with this conversation and ready to be done with it. But if he said that to John, the man would leave and go to his current girlfriend. John would be gone and Sherlock would be left with his jealousy and dislike of the situation, embarrassed by the admission he had made. That would probably end up being even more uncomfortable than the current conversation.

He abruptly turned and walked back up to John. He sat down next to the doctor and placed his hands on his knees.

“Alright, I'll concede the point. The Work and I are separate to some extent. I have feelings and interests that have nothing to do with solving cases.”

John chuckled and said, “I think we need to determine whether jealousy can be present in a friendship.” He glanced over at Sherlock. “I think it's possible.”

Sherlock eyed the other man. He tried to read the subtext hidden under John’s words. Did the idea of Sherlock loving him make him uncomfortable? Was that why he was so stuck on this, trying to determine whether jealousy could be found in friendships? Why couldn’t John just accept that Sherlock loved him and that he should break off his relationship with Mary if he returned those feelings with any intensity? Surely, this Mary would be capable of moving on from John after a few days, a fortnight at the most?

“Whoa, where did you go just now?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “What do you mean? I’m right here.”

“Nope, not going to work. You were thinking about something, trying to deduce something without sharing it with me. What is it?" John pressed.

“Why can’t you just accept that I have feelings for you and stop all this nonsense? Sherlock huffed. “I’m alive. I’d like to live here at 221B. With you. And I want our life back the way it was." Digging into his feelings, into his heart, was uncomfortable and he was tired. So tired. He knew it wasn’t possible to erase everything that had happened during the past two years, but on the other hand, it seemed like the simplest thing, picking up from where they’d left off.

_Why can’t John see things my way?_

“Two years, Sherlock. You have been gone for two years. I thought you were dead. I thought I’d have to live the rest of my life believing you committed suicide for some unknown reason. One that you couldn’t share with me." John’s voice held more than a trace of anger.

John stood up and paced on the landing above them.

Sherlock sighed. He knew he was reverting back to type, back to the man he’d been two years before. Why was becoming a “good man” so elusive? Surely he should strive for that since it must lead to the best possible outcome for both of them. Was it really worth hashing through this conversation with John? He felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest and examined under one of his microscopes. He didn’t like it.

The footsteps behind him stopped abruptly.

“I can’t continue this conversation without tea. Or something stronger,” John remarked irritably as he moved back into the flat and through to the kitchen. “If you want to keep talking, then get your arse in here."

The sounds of water running and cups slamming onto the worktop drifted out to Sherlock.

He hung his head and grinned humorlessly. An Englishman’s approach to emotional turmoil: tea.

After another moment, he stood and stretched. John was right: they’d been talking for too long on the steps. Walking back into the kitchen was hard but Sherlock knew they had to work things out between them if they were to repair their friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this. Hang onto your hats!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The final chapter.

Sherlock pulled out the chair he’d been sitting in a few hours before. He rested his hands on the back and leaned forward. John did not turn around and look at him but instead, busied himself making tea. 

John reached into the back of a low cabinet and produced a bottle of Talisker 10-year-old scotch. Sherlock laughed as he recognized the bottle that Mycroft had given them the Christmas before… well...before. John poured a generous amount into each cup after steeping tea in both. He placed one in front of Sherlock before seating himself at the table.

The detective sat down opposite John. They both quietly sipped their doctored tea, letting a mostly comfortable silence fall between them. Both waited for the other to take up the conversational ball. Neither appeared inclined to do so.

John finally broke the silence.

“Sorry I snapped at you out there.”

Sherlock stared into his cup.

“Sorry I reverted to form.”

They both grinned and saluted the other with their cups. They’d reached some sort of understanding, unspoken, but binding nonetheless. The conversation would go on until some resolution had been reached.

“I’m not sure it matters whether you love me as a man or a friend. The fact is, you feel love for me. And I,” John hesitated and swallowed hard before continuing. “I love you, too," he said, glancing shyly up at Sherlock. “Maybe it’s not important which it is.”

Sherlock stared at the other man. _Dare he hope?_ He roughly cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he croaked. 

“For what?”

The younger man gave John a lopsided smile. “For saying you love me. In whatever way.”

John smiled back and said, “Yeah, of course, you big git. Would have been a bit awkward, leaving that one-sided." 

He then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked anywhere but at Sherlock. 

“Hmm…” John sighed. 

Sherlock looked at him curiously for several seconds before saying, “Okay, so we have a mutual admiration society thing going here.” He paused for several seconds. “That’s all well and good but what does it mean?” Sherlock asked. “If we love each other, does that mean we move back in together and pick up our life of solving crimes again? The two of us against the world?”

John didn’t reply. Nor would he look at the man sitting across from him. He slowly shook his head. 

After several tense, silent minutes, Sherlock realized that John wasn’t going to answer him.

_ Oh, John. No. _

Sherlock thought he knew what John wanted him to say, even if it broke his heart. He said resignedly, “I think for the sake of argument, I’m willing to concede that the feelings I have for you may have to do with friendship, and I won’t embarrass you by demanding you examine your own right now. Let’s start from there and leave romance out of it. I don’t have much experience in either realm so it’s best if we begin with the simplest form of affection." 

Sherlock toyed with his teacup to distract himself from the sinking feeling in the pit of his abdomen. If he said the words, if he was the one to shoot down a chance for more, then he wouldn’t have to go through John rejecting him, shoving him back to a safe distance of friends.

“Besides, romance between us is out of the question now and for the foreseeable future." Sherlock cleared his throat. “Because of….” He still couldn’t bring himself to say  _ her _ name.

John took a deep breath before gulping down some tea. He coughed as if the alcohol stung his throat.

“John?” Sherlock said softly.

John looked up, dazed. He didn’t appear to have heard anything Sherlock said. “Um, yeah. Give us a mo, okay?”

The two men sat at the kitchen table, each struggling in his own way to understand the other. Sherlock watched as various expressions flit across John’s face. Frustration, anger, wonder, joy, confusion. Most of all, confusion. 

_ What is John so confused about? Had he not seemed content with the conclusion that this isn’t romance? _

Something seemed to have happened in John’s thinking after they returned to the kitchen. What? Sherlock went through their brief conversation: apologies, mutual admiration society…. 

_ Wait, what came right before that? _

Sherlock abruptly shoved his chair away from the table and stared at John. Could it be? Did he hear him right or was he just trying to twist the words to fit what he wanted? John hadn’t said anything after admitting that he also loved Sherlock. He hadn’t answered when Sherlock asked if they should go back to their old life after these admissions. John still hadn’t uttered a word after Sherlock offered to “just be friends,” as it were. And he wanted more time before replying.

_ What’s going on, John? _

Neither man spoke or moved for several minutes.

“John?”

“Sherlock?”

They spoke at the same time, voices overlapping. John finally looked up from his tea and stared at the man across from him. Sherlock stayed where he was, chair pushed several feet away from the table. Neither man dared breathe.

They tried again. And once more spoke over each other, calling the other by first name. John laughed brittley and motioned with his hands.  _ You first,  _ it obviously meant.

Sherlock sat with his hands on his knees and his feet flat on the floor. The fluorescent light buzzed above the kitchen table. This was one of those pivotal moments. Was Schrodinger’s cat dead or alive? Which did he want it to be? Which state would be the best for all involved, not just him? He knew what he wanted, despite what he’d said about friendship. Knew that he loved John as a friend, but, more importantly, as a man. He wanted to be in a committed relationship. Emotionally. Physically. Sexually. He wanted it all. If nothing else, tonight’s conversation had solidified that for him-seeing John tonight had cemented that desire.

But what about John? What was best for John? Did the doctor even feel the same for him? What kind of love did he mean when he said he loved Sherlock? Did it even matter, as John had asked?

“Sherlock?”

He looked wildly around the room as if he wasn’t sure who was talking or if he was even the one being addressed. He had to make a decision. What he said next would be crucial for their friendship. He wanted them to be honest in their feelings. But confusing John wasn’t what was best.

Sherlock did firmly believe that John loved him as a friend. That would have to be enough. He would work through his feelings and abide by the decision he made here tonight.

“John, listen to me closely. I will only say this once." Sherlock took in a ragged breath and said the three words he knew he would never say again after this. To anyone. “I love you.” His voice cracked but he managed to continue. “You are my friend, my colleague….My blogger.”

Both men chuckled.

“I don’t want to do anything to ruin that. Let’s focus on restoring our friendship after my two-year sabbatical. That’s a hard enough place to start.”

John still looked pensive but finally gave a nod, bobbing his head sharply downward once. He didn’t look at Sherlock as he stood, picked up the empty cups, and placed them in the sink to be washed. He stood motionless with his back to Sherlock, muscles bunching under his jumper.

Sherlock didn’t want to see his face right now. Didn’t want to risk seeing the relief on his features.

But, eventually, the way John had retreated from the conversation became worrying. Sherlock couldn’t read John beyond extreme tension and some emotional struggle taking place within the older man.

“John?" 

Heaving a big sigh, John turned in place to face his newly-resurrected friend. Sherlock took in the turmoil on John’s face. And, after staring at each other for several long seconds, Sherlock saw when the man he loved came to a decision. And he knew it was not the one he’d hoped for.

“Friends. Yes. I still want to slug you, you know,” John said, his words tinged with something resembling regret mixed with relief.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

_ This is what it feels like, then: the exquisite pain of being a good man. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading my first published story. I appreciate all the hits, kudos, and comments.
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this ending. I was torn between two different ones and decided to take the road less traveled, as it were.


End file.
